The Last Three Days
by Komeko-chan
Summary: Prussia has three days before the Allies officially dissolve him. Three days to live; three days to say goodbye to his brother; three days to mend their broken relationship; three days to tell his brother that he loves him and that he's sorry. (Not yaoi.)
1. Prologue

_"Ich schau zurück auf eine wunderschöne Zeit; warst die Zuflucht und die Wiege meines Seins."_

**_-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-_**

**February 22, 1947**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

It's dark when Prussia gets home.

The sun has long since vanished and the gold, pink, and orange hues that had once set the sky on fire before Prussia entered the meeting have melded into an inky blue. There are no stars out tonight; it's boggy and overcast, and the air is cold in a way that Prussia has never experienced it before. Inside is just as desolate – the lights are all off, the window shades drawn, and the radio silent. He wonders if Germany turned down the heat to save on money, because the air is bitingly cold, too. How uninviting.

Not bothering with his uniform, he tromps through the house and into the living room. He's still wearing his boots and he knows Ludwig will have a fit if he finds mud trails on the ground, but he can't really bring himself to care at this point. _My whole body will be covered in mud soon,_ he thinks, face twisting in a grimace. He isn't sure what happens to countries when they die; whether they're buried like normal humans, or vanish in a _poof_ of dust or whatever. It never really occurred to him that countries _can_ die. He's been living for several hundred years, has seen the rise and fall of many a nation, and has fought in his fair share of battles. But it had never struck him that at any possible moment, he too could die, just like all those men before him.

Prussia collapses onto the couch. The material sinks beneath his weight and he rests his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He's feeling stretched beyond his limits. The Allies had all looked so relaxed when discussing his dissolution, and he wonders if they ever really stopped to think about what it would be like if _they_ were in his situation. Probably not. They are narrow-minded fools who care little about anyone but themselves; destroying governments and cultures and murdering a country just because they don't share the same views as him.

And he still can't believe they think the Nazis originated their tyrannical rule from _him._ Ha, what a joke! It must have slipped their minds that when the Nazis came into rule, Prussia lost all his federal power and had been subject to being the puppy-dog that followed his newly-empowered brother around. He was basically just another part of Germany throughout the war, only contributing when his brother managed to talk his boss into allowing him say. Yes, his country is, perhaps, very rigid in structure, militaristic, illiberal, an obstacle to the spread of democracy, and a seemingly perfect place for the Nazis to make base. But that doesn't mean the Allies have the right to _abolish_ him. He may not be such a great power anymore, but he is still a nation with a long history and the very core of Germany. He doesn't deserve to be tossed aside like yesterday's trash.

He's so _frustrated_. It's prejudiced and imprudent to decide so easily on the destruction of another. It's easier to understand that mere mortals like Churchill, Truman, and Stalin don't see the significance in destroying an entire nation; they are selfish and human, after all. But for even his fellow personifications to look so unperturbed by the decision… it makes him nauseous just thinking about it.

Dinging the tips of his fingers into his face, Prussia sighs heavily and attempts to block out anymore of the vexing thoughts. He already understands the unfairness of it all but he can't bring about a change by moping. Actually, he can _never_ bring about a change.

Wow. That hits hard.

With a groan, Prussia presses his face further into his hands, hoping the pain of his crushing nose will help him forget everything. He's scared that if he keeps brooding over it he'll end up crying. Won't _that_ be a surprise to his brother. The last three days of his life spent tormented by Germany because he caught him crying? No thanks.

"There you are!"

Prussia jumps a foot in the air and drops his hands, head whipping around. Germany is standing in the door of the living room, hat, coat, and boots still on, and he is staring at Prussia with an eyebrow rose. In his hands are a pile of documents and he's tapping them against his palm, almost impatiently, wrinkling a few of the crisp papers' corners.

"Oh, West," Prussia murmurs, blinking and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until his cloudy vision returns to normal. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Only a few seconds," his brother replies, crossing his arms and leaning against the threshold. "How long have _you_ been here?"

Prussia runs a hand through his hair and sighs, shrugging as if it were no big deal. "Ten minutes, at the most. The meeting ended at–" he pauses and looks at the clock. His eyes bulge. "_What?_ Is it that late _already?_" he exclaims, not believing what he sees.

He's been sitting in that same spot for over an hour!

"Thought so," Germany says, knocking his head from side to side as if he were trying to crack his neck. "You always get so mopey after meetings."

"I wasn't moping!"

Germany snorts. "_Ja?_ Care to share why you've been here so long and yet the lights are off, the fire isn't started, and the heat is still low? It's freezing in here – don't tell me you didn't at least notice _that._"

No, Prussia _won't_ tell him that he didn't notice the cold… That would basically admit to him sulking.

Instead he places his arms behind his head and sinks back into the cushions, trying to look nonchalant. Most of the time his facades easily slip past people, but not with his brother; no, Germany can see through every mask he puts on, no matter how thick it is. And by the look on Germany's face as he eyes his stoic brother, he knows there is something going through Prussia's head that he's not sharing.

But unlike most people, he doesn't press the matter. He understands his brother well enough to know that when he is ready to talk, he will. Pestering simply makes him clam-up. Not that that the German is one for pestering, anyway; if his brother doesn't want to talk then fine.

Prussia appreciates this about him.

"Hey, do you want to go grab a beer?"

Germany pushes himself from the doorway and begins to tap the papers against his palm again. "That would be nice, but I have work to do."

Prussia tries not to let his frown show. It's not like Germany knows about his abolishment, so he can't blame him for putting work over having a beer with his brother. But it hurts nonetheless. He always has a way of choosing work over family; it was just one of his rigid brother's many attributes that causes the two of them – unified or not – to speak less often the more they get older.

"C'mon!" Prussia insists, hopping up from the couch. "Spend some time with your big _bruder!_"

Germany scowls, looking adamant, but Prussia can easily see the falter in his paper-tapping and a flicker of longing in his eyes. No German man could turn down a beer; the world just didn't spin like that.

With a sigh, Germany drops his arms and closes his eyes. "_Fine._"

"Good! I would be worried if my little brother didn't want to drink beer." Prussia straightens his coat and runs a hand through his hair. He shoots Germany a wide, toothy grin – obviously not receiving one in return – and heads towards the door. "Well, let's go!"

"Just so you know, I'm not doing this for _you_; I'm doing this because I need a break _und_ having a beer is the perfect way to relax," Germany says, following him out the door.

"_Ja, ja_, whatever you say."

Prussia doesn't really care if his brother wants to spend time with him or not, he's just glad they get to go out together and drink like they did before the world wars. And honestly, he's simply thankful Germany agreed to go with him at all. A little time together before his dissolvent.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Hey, thanks for doing this," Prussia says. And he means it.

He glances at Germany from the corner of his eye, face devoid of emotion but chest swelling with the fact that he _finally_ – even if it is before he dies – gets to spend time with his brother. Germany pauses with his beer halfway to his lips. The clinking of glasses from the bar counter and the raucous laughter of the men around them seems to grow louder, but Prussia continues to stare and Germany continues to sit there, frozen. Then, as if recovering himself, he continues in his movement and takes a swig.

"I don't know why you're thanking me," he mumbles, setting his bottle down.

Prussia knew he was going to say this. It can never simply be a, "you're welcome" or "it's not a big deal"; he always has to make it sound like he doesn't care. But Prussia knows he does and it's just his roundabout way of saying so.

With a smile, the albino takes a sip of his own drink. He pinches the mouth of bottle when he's done and swings it sideways indifferently.

"You know, we always used to do this back in the day," he says conversationally. "You know, before everything happened."

Germany nods and cradles his beer between his large hands, staring at the glass as it catches the lighting of the bar.

They're sitting at a two-person table far away from everyone, sideways so their backs are turned towards the door, trying to blend in with the walls and shadows of the corner so they're not noticed by any federal officials. Technically, Germany isn't allowed to have "breaks". No matter the time of day or night, if he's needed, he has to be there. It's funny, really, being the personification of countries and all, one would think it would be _them_ to have the power; apparently, however, they're just as soundless as their terrain. No say, no power, no ability to control anything happening or choices being made… Prussia wonders if things would have turned out differently had they been allowed to make the decisions of their own futures, rather than they're big ol' bosses manipulating their every move. To an extent, perhaps. At least things would have been less confusing without the political turmoil.

"We did, didn't we?"

Prussia gazes sidelong at him, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "_Ja_, we did."

It probably doesn't really matter to the German _what_ they used to do. But for Prussia, sitting here at the bar, a couple beers in front of them, not really talking but just _being_… It is exactly what he has wanted for a long time. And for these final three days, he will try and be with his brother as often as possible. Even if it drives the blond insane.

Germany shifts in his seat to look at Prussia. His face holds its usual stern look, almost like someone etched it out of stone, but his blue eyes are soft. It's something Prussia has only seen a handful of times, and he can tell that Germany wants to know what's going on. He knows something's up.

"Hey, what happened at the meeting?" he asks, leaning into the back of his chair at an angle so he's facing Prussia. The beer is still in his hands but it's half full, like he forgot about it. "We've been here twenty minutes and you've barely spoken."

Prussia glances down at his own drink and sees that the liquid is still touching the neck of the bottle. He must have dazed off again.

Hesitating, he wonders if he should say something. Maybe not about his dissolution, but perhaps that the Allies weren't going to return him to his previous power. He knows that if he tells Germany about being abolished, all hell will break lose. And he also knows that his last days will be spent in a dim atmosphere; for him to be upset is one thing (and obviously a given) but for his brother to be… Well, ignorance is bliss. Prussia doesn't want any more suffering placed on his brother's shoulders. Most especially if it's because of him.

Prussia spins his bottle around and leans back in his seat as well, but facing the wall rather than his brother. He might as well play it up, just to keep his façade real and Germany from pressing any further.

"They won't return me to my original power," he mumbles.

It's not a lie but it's not the truth.

"What?" Germany demands. "Who gave them the right to– well, never mind. But what makes them think they can just leave you hanging?"

Prussia shrugs. "Wish I knew."

"Bastards," Germany growls, lifting his beer to his lips again. "Now I see why you keep moping."

"I'm not moping!"

The beer bottle hits the table with a dull _thud_ and Germany runs a hand through his hair, pushing some of the pieces that had escaped back into place. "Well, things will eventually go back to the way they were. It will take time, but eventually…"

"I don't think things will ever go back to normal… not after everything that's happened…" Prussia murmurs, frowning. "I don't really blame the Allies for hating us so much. Even France…" he cuts off, remembering the vengeful look his friend had given him, condemning him to dissolution. He swallows thickly and looks down at the table. "Well, we did a lot of terrible things, West."

"I know." Germany taps a finger on the table, looking pensive. "It may take many years but eventually… eventually things will be smoother. Maybe not the same, but not as rough, either."

_Too bad I won't be here when that happens…_

They're silent again and finish their drinks. Germany doesn't seem to suspect Prussia of hiding anything anymore, so the rest of their night goes smoothly. They talk about things here and there; the debt, the damage still being repaired, Hitler killing himself… They skirt around the touchy topics, however, like the concentration camps and the Nazis, both too ashamed and too regretful to really know what to say. They don't reminisce about old times nor do they bring up nostalgic memories. Discussing present events seems fair enough to both and with Germany sunk knee-deep in after-war efforts, Prussia thinks it might relieve his mind to talk about it. He does with little prompting, and they share hearty discussions about politics, the Allies, and something as frivolous as military attire (both are very pleased with the current uniforms but there have been discussions about reformations, as per usual in any military setting).

By the time they finish their beers (one, of course, leads to two, which in turn leads to three…) it's well past midnight and their eyes are heavy with sleep. Neither complains, however, with the late hour; they are both pleased and find the time well-spent. (Most especially Prussia, who had regained his good humor by the second beer, much to the pleasure of his brother who, by the end of the night was rosy-cheeked and cracking tiny smiles.)

The walk home is cold – icy wind cuts through their uniform jackets and their leather boots do little to keep their feet warm. Their hats are useless in protecting against the chill, and both are shivering. Yet Prussia's smile remains and even Germany's face is softer, lips twitching upwards when his brother says something particularly funny. He even lets out a chuckle when Prussia slips on a patch of ice and nearly smacks his face onto the ground. Not that Prussia finds this funny. Because it's not.

Prussia is thankful that Germany turned on the heat before they left, because the house is warm and inviting and he's able to strip off his damp coat, hat, boots, and scarf without worry of freezing to death in his own home. Clearly Germany feels the same way because as soon as his outer garments are off, he takes a deep, contented sigh and stretches his arms over his head.

"Well, it's late," he says, grunting as he grabs his left elbow with his right hand and pulling the muscles until their loose. "I have another early day tomorrow. _Gute Nacht_."

He begins to walk towards the stairs, swinging his arms back and forth in a lazy sort of way, flexing his fingers as he if had just done a serious workout. With a shake of his head, Prussia decides to head towards the kitchen before bed; he's starving and there's nothing better than wurst after a couple beers. He's gonna die anyway. Might as well binge while he can.

"Hey, _bruder_…"

Prussia stops and turns his head. Germany is standing at the bottom of the stairs, hands in his pockets and face turned away. The albino can swear he sees a bit of pink on his brother's cheeks, and it most definitely isn't from the alcohol.

"I just… wanted to thank you," he murmurs, still not looking at Prussia. "I guess I needed the break. And it was…" he pauses, cringes, and then clears his throat. "Well, it was nice spending time with you. I guess."

Prussia blinks. Did he just hear… what he thought he heard?

Did Germany just… _thank_ him _and_ say he had a good time?

Surely, surely he was dying at this very moment. Yes, he can swear his heart has stopped in chest.

Sensing his brother's baffled silence, Germany coughs and lifts his shoulders, putting on an appearance of disinterest and turning back towards the stairs. "_Ja_, anyway…"

But before he can move, Prussia is standing next to him and his hand is in his hair, ruffling the blond tresses until they resemble something of a rats nest. Prussia catches the elicited groan that escapes Germany's mouth at the feeling of his hair being mussed but ignores it, grinning widely. It's not something he would ever think Germany to do – thank him. Even when Germany was little the closest "thanks" Prussia ever got was a grunt and a scowl. (Not that much has changed.)

Prussia lets his arm drop as he walks off and towards the kitchen, chuckling all the way, deciding to spare his dear brother any further embarrassment. Although it _is_ thoroughly entertaining to watch Germany becom flustered. Not soon after Prussia steps into the kitchen, the thumps of Germany's heavy footfalls echo through the house as he makes his way up the stairs.

Once the wooden floors are creaking above Prussia's head – signaling Germany is upstairs and in his room – he lifts the hand he had patted Germany's head with and observes it, eyebrows pinched together.

Funny, he doesn't really remember Germany being so tall.

The cupboard squeals as he opens it, searching for something to eat. All the cupboards are empty, reflecting impeccably on the current state of his brother's economy (economic crisis's had a way of finding their way into the personifications' homes). Prussia pushes onto his tip-toes and stretches a hand far above his head to feel the topmost cupboard for something to eat. His hand brushes against the empty wood of the cupboard.

And it hits him.

He freezes in his reaching, eyes wide and mouth hanging, as a nauseatingly forlorn feeling makes its way into his gut like a chunk of iron. Because now it makes sense.

Germany is _tall_.

Taller than _him._

Before both of the wars, they had been the same height. He remembers because he had found it difficult to ruffle is "little" brother's hair like he had when he was young; having to stretch his arm just to get his hand on the blond head, it had occurred to him at that time how much his brother had grown as country. He was so proud. But just tonight when he had ruffled Germany's hair, it had taken every ounce of muscle to reach the top of his head. It didn't hit to him until now as to _why_ it had taken a deal of effort to reach.

Prussia lost his power. He is now nothing more than a simple part of Germany, hardly a personification of a once great nation. His brother, however, is much, much more. So while Prussia remains the same height, Germany grows with his nation. He's not only taller than his brother but is also stronger, more capable, and independent.

A sad smile twists his features until he's pretty sure he's not even smiling anymore, simply grimacing. He pulls his arm back down, not feeling hungry anymore, and shuffles off and towards his room.

That's right. Germany is bigger than him now.

He doesn't need Prussia anymore.

Big brother's job is done.

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

_"I'm looking back to a wonderful time; you were the anchor and the cradle of my existence."_


	2. Day 1

_"Hast gekämpft und jeden Moment mit mir geteilt. Ich bin stolz auch jetzt bei dir zu sein." -Unheilig_

* * *

**February 23, 1947**

* * *

"_You do realize what this means for Germany… don't you, Prussia?" Churchill murmurs dangerously. "He will be the enemy that everyone wants to see's head on a silver platter. He will spend the rest of his years as a nation in misery, torment, and blame. He will be hated. Despised. The Nazi Country that children have nightmares about._

_Prussia bows his head and clenches his jaw until he thinks his teeth might shatter from the tension. Adrenaline pumps through his veins as millions of thoughts and scenarios spin through his head, each one just as terrible as the next and sending his heart into a frenzy. He feels like he is going to vomit. _

"_Ja. I understand."_

_It's a forced answer, taut and choked, but Churchill seems pleased with it despite. _

_He blows air through his nose loudly and leans back into his chair, the wooden structure groaning in protest and echoing through the vast, empty room. It's just the two of them. Prussia almost forgot. He is so used to the silence of the Allies as they watch him spitefully during meetings that he nearly forgets no one else is with him and Churchill today. _

_He hates being alone with him._

_The Brit's staring through him again. Prussia hates when he does that – it's like he can see through his soul; like he can read his very thoughts and feel his deepest emotions, using every single pain and bad memory against him. _

_He hates it so much._

"_I will make a deal with you." Churchill's voice rings through the silence, causing Prussia's pulse to quicken. His voice is steady, firm, almost flirtations, like he's offering the most delicious option to the agony-filled personification before him. "It will save your brother, if you're interested."_

_This makes Prussia's entire body freeze. His mind momentarily lapses; his muscles, lungs, and heart stop working. His breathing is silenced, his vision clouds over, the ringing quiet grows louder in his ears, and his head spins out of control. _

_Save his brother?_

_He can save his brother?_

_But Churchill's voice is precarious. Like his tongue is coated with a poison; a poison that is fatal yet desirable, beckoning Prussia in a sweet, murderous way, and Prussia wonders if the Serpent sounded like that when he tempted Eve in the Garden._

_It's bad – he knows it's bad but he can't help it. He's dancing with the Devil and yet he cares little about the consequences. He can't stand the thought of his brother spending the rest of his life in torment because of a stupid mistake; a mistake that Prussia, inevitably, had a part of. _

_Squaring his shoulders, he lifts his head, looks Churchill square in the eye, and answers the Tempter without a quaver in his voice._

"_What's the deal?" _

"Well, someone looks chipper this morning."

Prussia turns a nasty scowl onto his brother, eyes half-lidded and bags the size of Berlin hanging underneath them. He looks frighteningly akin to the dead.

"I feel like I want to kill everyone. Shut up."

Germany grabs a beer from the counter and pops it open. "We've tried that and it doesn't work."

Prussia blinks.

Germany actually looks like he's trying to fight back a laugh, despite that the joke was rather twisted and vile. Usually one doesn't make light of the fact they nearly caused genocide.

"That's not funny," Prussia growls, eyes drilling into Germany's profile.

"You're right. It's not funny." The twitching of Germany's facial muscles tells Prussia he thinks otherwise. He takes a swig of his beer and settles into the chair across from Prussia with a sigh. "But it's truth."

Prussia snorts and lifts his own beer to his lips. The familiar drink dances across his tongue and settles into his stomach, and he closes his eyes to relish in the taste. Germany sets his bottle down with a _clank_, causing the uneven kitchen table to wobble beneath the extra weight of his drink. Prussia peeks an eye open and watches his brother mindlessly spin the bottle around, cheek pressed into his hand that's supported by the table. Prussia lifts a brow in question.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

Germany's eyes flicker up to the albino. He shakes his head. "Just tired."

Prussia hums thoughtfully and taps his finger against the tabletop. He feels less grouchy now that he's gotten some beer into his system. Memories and nightmares (although it's hard for him to differentiate between the two) had plagued him the whole night and he had gotten very little sleep.

"_I will make a deal with you." _

Pain shoots through his jaw and Prussia realizes he's grinding his teeth again. Unlatching his throbbing mouth, he wipes a hand wearily down his face and tries to clear his doesn't regret his decision – will _never _regret it – but to condemn one's self to die… Well, it's something that haunts a man.

Despite his best efforts, the haunting must be evident on his face because Germany is looking at him with the smallest hint of concern. His brows are pulled together and his beer is resting between his palms, the liquid still touching the neck of the bottle.

"How about you?" he asks.

Prussia rolls his neck in an attempt to look unperturbed despite that every muscle screams in agony at the movement.

"What do you mean?"

"You look exhausted – are you alright?"

"Oh." Prussia runs a hand through his hair and lifts his shoulders. "I'm good. Just didn't sleep well, is all."

"I see," Germany murmurs, but he doesn't look convinced.

They sit in silence, both unsure of what else to say.

It's clear they are equally beset by their thoughts, but Prussia knows they will never share their apprehensions aloud. Instead they sit and enjoy – to the best of their ability, anyway – their drinks and the company of each other.

Prussia forgot how much he longed for something as simple as sitting at the kitchen table with his brother; they had spent so much time in silence through the years that it had escaped Prussia just how much he liked being around Germany.

Taking a glance at the blond, Prussia's eyebrows shoot up when he realizes that he's not wearing his usual attire. Rather, he's adorning an old pair of pants, a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up halfway, and muddy boots that look long since abandoned. Germany must not have touched the things since his days in the war. Prussia wonders if they're still caked with mud from the battlefield and if so, then there must be blood wedged in between the grainy brown, too.

He tries not to think of his own that are buried in the back of his closet.

"Don't you have work today?" he asks, gesturing with his beer to Germany's clothing.

Germany looks down at himself. He shrugs. "I decided to catch up on some training today."

"Ah," Prussia murmurs thoughtfully, taking a gulp of his beer. "You wouldn't mind if I joined, would ya?"

The questions seems to catch Germany off-guard. He stares at Prussia with a look of mild surprise. Prussia can't really blame him – it's been a few years since they've trained together, after all. And it was Prussia's fault that their sessions together stopped in the first place. (It's rather easy to hold a grudge when your brother's boss takes away your power.)

"_Nein_, of course of I wouldn't mind," Germany finally says, blinking dazedly.

"_Gut_." Prussia nods his head and stands. "I'll get changed then."

He makes it way to the kitchen door, stuffing his hands into his pockets and trying to ignore the obvious gaze drilling into his back.

"Don't take an hour," Germany calls after him, and Prussia throws a look of confusion over his shoulder. "You don't need the status of 'grandmother' to match with you hair."

The albino is unable to quell his laughter at his brother's teasing. For a fun-sucker, Germany is certainly in a jaunty mood today. Not that Prussia is complaining – it's just out of the ordinary and he isn't sure how to react.

Most especiallywhen Germany's cracking Holocaust jokes.

"What the heck is wrong with him?" Prussia mumbles to himself, although he can't wipe the grin from his face.

It's been thirteen years since they've trained together. Funny what the prospect of death will make you do.

Prussia collapses on the ground with his chest rising and falling painfully.

"_Meine Güte!_" he chokes out, running a sweaty hand through his equally damp hair. "I forgot how much of a monster you are when it comes to this stuff!"

Germany stands over top of him, blocking out the hazy sun that glares at them from the sky and casting him into a shadow. He's breathing heavily too but not nearly as much as Prussia. Perspiration drips from his face and darkens his shirt –coat having been discarded in the middle of their four mile lap– and his cheeks are flushed from the cold and exertion, but he doesn't look the least bit ready to quit.

Unlike Prussia who feels like he's dying.

"You can't be tired already!" Germany says in disbelief. "We've only done a hundred sit-ups, a hundred and fifty pushups, ran four miles, sparred three times, and sprint raced twice!"

Prussia scowls. "I lost all three times we sparred."

"That's because you're out of shape!"

"West, you kicked me in the testicles every match and then proceeded to step on my face."

"So?"

He receives a deadpanned stare.

"You're so out of shape," Germany growls, shaking his head and stepping back from Prussia. He extends a hand. "It's all that beer you've been drinking. Not to mention you spend most of your time sitting around like a bum."

Grumbling about how "encouraging" Germany is, Prussia reaches up and allows Germany to haul him back onto his wobbly legs.

Although he's a little more than offended, he can't argue – it's obvious his lazy beer days have dragged his physical health down. During the war he had been in excellent shape; the top man in his unit, and still to this day his good friends (the ones that survived, anyway) call him the Tank Man. (Which is really only two – the whole rest of his unit was wiped out. But he tries not to dwell on that.)

Germany unlatches the towel he had suspended from his neck and wipes his head and face. When he pulls it back, the linen is darkened with perspiration and the white is smeared with grime. He tosses it to Prussia –who, caught unawares, fumbles to snatch it from the air– and then stretches his arms above his head.

Wrinkling his nose, Prussia gingerly lifts the dirty towel and clears his sweaty face as well. He's just thankful Germany showers on a daily basis, otherwise sharing the cloth could be _really _disgusting.

"Hey, how about lunch?" Prussia asks indifferently while rubbing his moist hair with the towel.

Germany –who is stretching his legs and torso– pauses and cranes his neck to shoot Prussia a look.

"What?" Prussia asks, eyebrow quirked.

Germany quickly looks away, dropping his gaze to the ground as he straightens his back and gives his arms one final swing.

"Actually, I was going to ask you that," he mumbles, still not looking up.

Prussia looks pleasantly surprised.

It was perfectly normal during the old days to have lunch together, but even then it was _Prussia _who asked – not Germany. The stiff-backed man was either too prideful or gruff to ask his brother to lunch. Not that it stopped him from accepting the invitation (because it never did) but he usually never agreed happily, just mumbled something about not being busy and having nothing better to do.

His blue eyes land on Prussia's stunned face and he scowls. "What's that look for?"

"N-nothing," Prussia replies, blinking rapidly as he turns his face away. "Just didn't expect you to say that..."

The only response he gets is a grunt.

Germany takes his coat from the ground and shakes it out, knocking off any debris before slinging it over his shoulder. As he makes his way to the house, Prussia finishes scrubbing his face and follows with a skip in his step. He's a little more than excited to go out to eat and the grin on his flushed face is enough to show it. He's even happier that Germany had been planning on asking _him_ to go first.

Prussia has to fight back a very unmanly giggle.

_Sauerbraten_, _Apfelstrudal_, beer… His mouth waters just thinking about the piping hot food with a stein of his favorite drink being slid in front of him. They may be in a recession, but Prussia really has no use for his money considering he'll be dead in two days. He might as well splurge on delectable food while he can. And he knows Germany won't have any complaints when he offers to take care of the bill – after all, Germany's wallet is just about empty at this point.

"I'm going to get changed, _ja_?" Prussia says, practically hopping up the stairs. "Then we can go for some lunch."

"Change? How about a shower. You smell terrible." Germany says with an expression of disgust.

Prussia lifts his arm and takes a whiff.

"_Oh meine Güte_," he chokes. "My awesome went and died under my pits!"

"That is called _work_, you _dummkopf._"

Prussia gives a cheeky grin before bounding up the stairs and into the bathroom.

Before closing the door he shouts, "Hey, West?"

There is shuffling, the sound of something being dropped, and then cursing.

"_Was?_" Germany snaps.

"You smell like work, too!"

They're both silent as they walk to the pub.

Germany doesn't bother hiding his appearance and neither does Prussia; a small vacation is perfectly acceptable whether Germany's superiors want it to be or not. (Which is probably the latter, but Prussia could care less.) Germany has been working day in and day out since the war ended to make amends and he deserves a break. If he wants to go out to lunch on his break then by goodness, let the man eat.

But Prussia begins to regret the decision of not covering his face the further they get into town, wishing he had, at least, worn glasses. A lot of stares are cast their way and Prussia tries not the meet the eyes of lingering passerby. He bows his head and stares at the ground, but he can still hear their whispers.

"_Isn't that Prussia and Germany?"_

"_I heard it's all Prussia's fault that the war happened."_

"_Really? I heard the Nazis originated from Prussia."_

"_Königsberg was all but wiped out because of the Soviets."_

"_Serves him right. Stupid Nazi."_

He tries to pull his hat further over his eyes in an attempt to conceal his face. His usual cockiness had vanished after the meeting with Churchill, and although he plays it up when he is around Germany, he can't seem to muster his usual facade with the eyes of so many wanderers' glued to him.

During the war, Hitler posted pictures of Germany's "handsome stoicism" as well as Prussia's "cocky smile" on every street corner and curb for the disheartened German civilians to see. Hitler knew his people were losing faith in his ideals and talks of triumph, so he took matters into his own hands to rekindle the hope of his people. The posters spread like wildfire through every street in Germany and Prussia, and soon their faces became the very definition of war propaganda.

But back then, back when they were still fighting the Allies, things had been okay. People would stop them in the streets, thank them, sometimes even give them gifts, and then continue on their way looking delighted. It was a nice feeling.

Prussia can still recall the warmth that spread through his chest when he had been on his way to the Front and a young boy pulled him aside. It had been a little tug –just small enough to gain his attention– on the back of his coat, and he had bent down so he was level with the red-eyed child. He was asked for a handshake (his was much larger than the boy's) and a pat on the head. Nothing more and nothing less. Prussia can vividly remember what the boy looked like even now: pale skin and white hair just like his own, but the kid's arms and legs were peppered with bruises. When Prussia asked who did it, the boy shrugged and said he was picked on because of his looks. He was albino too.

With a gentle smile, Prussia had stuck out his hand, firmly gave the boy's smaller one a shake, and then dropped the same hand to ruffle the boy's white hair. Then he reached up towards his head and grasped the brim of his hat.

"Well," Prussia began, slipping off his hat and dropping it onto the boy's head. "If those bullies hurt you again, Mr. Prussia will personally deal with them. Make sure you to tell them that, _ja?_"

The hat was far too big for his head and it slipped down and over his eyes, his cheeks reddening in delight as he pushed the brim up to stare at Prussia with a twinkling gaze and a broad smile. Prussia couldn't fight the lift of his lips in return, almost as if the grin bursting forth was a reflection of the boy's.

Soon Prussia was back in the front ranks beside his brother and marching off to war. His hat was gone but he cared little for the missing garment – it was now a symbol of hope on that child's head, and that was more than enough for Prussia. Because to someone he was a hero.

And maybe that was all he needed to keep living.

But all good things must come to end. Prussia's joy was short lived as the war escalated and the continuous causalities and battle losses (Germany was still reeling from Normandy) piled one atop the other like corpses. Italy abandoned the Axis and regrouped with the Allies, too much of a coward to face War in its ugly face and plow forward. The people continued to lose hope and no amount of posters stoppered the piddling optimism that was quickly replaced by despair.

As soon as the Allies besieged Germany –the Red Army massacring and raping, the Americans and British bombing civilian homes, and the Polish and Czechs and Yugoslavians slaughtering every person in their country of German descent– the people's view of their personifications changed significantly.

It was like everything had been turned on its head – admiration turned to disgust, love turned to hatred, pride turned to shame. The warmth that had filled Prussia's chest despite his loss of federal power was replaced by a ball of ice and a profound sense of despondency.

He never saw the boy again.

Their loathing for him and Germany still has yet to die, and if anything, has only grown into a root of animosity so thick and deep it's as if someone has driven a stake through Prussia's chest. For Germany their feelings have neither dissipated nor intensified, but for Prussia their disdain has become too much to bear. Although he had agreed to take this burden upon his shoulders with the greatest sincerity (he can see Churchill's face flash through his mind and he cringes behind his hat), he can't help the wrenching in his chest.

"_Everything is __**his**__ fault."_

Something slaps him on the back and he has to draw in a breath before titling his head to the side. Germany is staring at him with a brow rose, arm extended with his hand placed on his brother's shoulder, and there is a mild look of unease that flashes across his face as he takes in Prussia's pensive sulking.

"We're here," he says, jerking his chin towards the pub.

Prussia blinks. He hadn't even realized they'd arrived.

He forces the faces of the sneering people from his mind and instead focuses his gaze on Germany's back as he follows him. He just has to remember that he's doing all of this for his brother's sake. Once everything is said and done all of the mass killings will stop, Germany will be free of the Ally tyranny, and he will have a brighter, healthier future.

That's all that matters.

A delightful scent crawls up Prussia's nose and he sniffs the air.

Well, that and _Apfelstrudal. _That matters too.

The pub is full when they walk in. Prussia had been secretly hoping it wouldn't be, and he hesitates in the doorway as Germany makes his way to an empty table. More prying eyes. More dirty looks. Animosity is thick in the air already and he hasn't even stepped foot into the building.

But he won't let them ruin his time with his brother. Prussia sets his jaw and strides in with all the confidence he can muster. A couple men turn their steely gazes on him, but they look away and resume their meals and drinks when he returns their stares with an icy one of his own. Two can play this game.

Germany pulls back his chair and falls heavily onto it. Some blond hair escapes its well-kept hold when he removes his hat, and he pauses to run his fingers through it and back into place before reaching to pull off his coat. Prussia follows his example and leans comfortably back into chair as the heat of the building engulfs him.

Scanning the room lazily, he notes that most, if not all, of the other customers are too busy with their meals to pay him heed, and he grins happily at the prospect of a peaceful lunch.

A menu is slid in front of him and he glances up at the waitress as she moves to put one in front of Germany as well. She is small, perhaps not more than five three, with a rounded face and pleated blond hair. She is adorable in every aspect of the word. Prussia gives her a pleasant smile before turning his attention to his menu (he doesn't miss the pretty blush that covers her cheeks as she offers him a tiny smile of her own, however, effectively boosting his ego).

"What will it be?" she chirps sweetly and turns her face from one to the other.

Prussia hums in thought and leans over his menu. He taps the beer of his choice. "This."

She looks at Germany who mumbles out his drink –some kind of strong ale that Prussia never really had a taste for–and nods before flitting off towards the kitchen.

The moment she is out of sight, Prussia leans forward on his hand and stares off dazedly in the direction she disappeared.

"She's cute…" he murmurs with a grin.

"And mortal," Germany points out dryly. "Which means she'll grow old and die long before you do, leaving you to remain alone for the rest of your pitiful existence until someone comes along and destroys your country and kills you."

Prussia gives his brother a long, hard look. "Did you have to ruin the moment?"

"_Ja_, actually, I did."

The waitress returns to their table with two steins in her hand. She gives them each their respective drinks before asking about their food. They both order and she skips off, her braid bouncing with every dainty step.

When she is gone, Germany looks at Prussia with his brow rose as if to say, "Still think she's cute?" Prussia snorts and shakes his head. His interest in her is no longer. Leave it to his cynical brother to crush his romantic attitude.

They both settle down as they wait for meals. Prussia sighs in contentment and folds his arms behind his head.

"Did I ever mention this is my favorite place to eat?" he asks, tone light and airy.

"I would have never guessed considering how much you leave the house," Germany replies evenly, brushing his hand down his shirt to smooth out the creases.

"Spare me your sarcasm," Prussia says irritably.

"Likewise."

"Well, you're certainly full of sass today, aren't you?"

"I think you might have given me yours, actually. You're abnormally silent today. Well, as silent as you can get." He pauses. "Something eating you?"

"My mind is just preoccupied."

"Penny for your thoughts?"

This makes Prussia smirk as he replies with as much wit as he can muster, "Sorry, but I don't accept American money."

Germany swirls the beer inside his stein quietly for a moment. His forehead is scrunched and his blue eyes fastened to the drink in his hands.

"How about a Reichsmark?" he asks, brows lifted.

His tone is light but there's a flicker of uncertainty that makes its way across his face when he glances up at Prussia. The albino draws in a breath and lowers his head. A small fraction of him (the selfish side, he supposes) wishes he could spill his guts out to ease the pressure off his chest; sometimes things are better handled when more than person carries the burden.

But he shakes his head, mouth hitching as he forces a grin, and he brings a hand up to scratch his cheek.

"It's nothing."

"It doesn't seem like nothing," Germany says, and Prussia can feel the crystal gaze drilling into him. "Does this have to do with the meeting?"

Prussia opens his mouth and then snaps it closed.

Crap.

If he says no, Germany will see right through him. But if he says yes then it will certainly rouse Germany's anger, and he will confront the Council personally to discuss Prussia's loss of federal diplomacy. And that, most unfortunately, will not end well for anyone.

Debating his options, Prussia runs a thumb down the side of his stein thoughtfully and pauses when his knuckle hits the table. He stares at the clear strip he created by cutting through the condensation on his mug.

"_Ja_…" he finally says. "It has to do with the meeting."

Their silence is filled with _Sing, Nachtigall, Sing _by Evelyn Künneke at it plays quietly in the background; the soothing tune is mixed with the hum of a baritone voice belonging to someone in the pub, the low octaves swinging with the melody.

„_Sing Nachtigall sing, rühr mein müdes Her..."_

Prussia brings his thumb back down his glass, tracking another path through the dewy side and leaving two lines parallel to one another. He begins to tap his finger absentmindedly on the table in wait for his brother's reply.

„..._Bring, Nachtigall, bring mir mein Glück zurück, mir mein Glück zurück..."_

"I thought so. You always sucked at lying." Germany finally says, cutting off Evelyn's last trill just before the song ends. He hesitates before continuing, "I've decided to discuss your current state with the Council. Perhaps with a little persuading…" He pauses. "Well, with a _lot _of persuading… they may reconsider your charges of offense–"

_BAM_

Prussia slams his stein on the table with such force that the wooden structure wobbles and cricks.

Germany trails off. He looks taken aback; his mouth hangs open with unfinished words and the rest of his speech dying on his tongue. Some of the nearby men turn to see what the commotion is about.

Prussia, realizing his outburst a little too late, flushes crimson and relinquishes his grip on his mug. He had been sincerely hoping his brother wouldn't start this topic, and he had accidentally ended up slamming his drink with more force than was his original intent. He averts his gaze in embarrassment.

"S-sorry…" he mumbles quietly, shifting in his chair. "It's just… well, I'm in a tricky situation and I would rather you not get involved. I mean, you have enough on your plate as it is already; I don't want you to worry about me, too…"

Germany purses his lips. "I wasn't going to do anything rash, just talk to them."

"_Ja_, I know, but–"

"Someone has to say _something_. You're a _country _for Gott's sake – you can just let them kick you around!"

"I get that but they've already made up their minds–"

"So what if they 'made up their minds'? Are you just going to take this sitting down?" Germany demands.

Prussia chuckles awkwardly at this, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, if you're being _literal_..."

"I'm not joking, Prussia! You're entirety of a country is at stake! This is serious!"

"I know–"

"You've been around longer than even England! You have civilians to think about – families and children–"

"And you think I don't know that?" Prussia snaps, silencing Germany. "You think I don't know that I have people to take care of? I am very well aware of my situation, _bruder._ But unfortunately, there's not much I can do about it, is there? Thanks to the war I'm stuck under Ally tyranny and I have little choice in what happens to me or my people."

"Then let me help!" Germany insists.

"_Nein. _I don't want you sticking your neck out for me any more than you already have."

"Don't be stubborn," Germany growls. "It's my job as your _bruder_ to help you, whether you want it or not."

Prussia passes a hand down his face in exhaustion. He had hoped this conversation wouldn't come up; Germany is just as stubborn as he is, if not more so, and there is no means of escape once Germany's made his mind up on a matter.

Prussia decides to take a sharp left with his words in hopes of ending the argument in a whole before it can escalate and before Germany actually _does _end up going to the Council.

"Well I don't _want _your help," he retorts nastily. "So drop it."

Germany's eyes tighten.

"Do you think you can lie to me?"

Prussia opens his mouth. He closes it.

The reply startles him and for once in his life he doesn't know what to say. He hadn't expected Germany to say something like that.

It feels like something shatters inside him.

He's always hated how his brother could read him like a book; those calculating blue eyes surveying him so easily it's like being see-through. Vulnerable. Open. But there is something different about him this time and how he actually seems to _care_. Prussia feels overwhelmed.

He wants tell him. He wants his help. He wants to fix everything and keep living.

He doesn't want to die.

But he can't.

He closes his eyes. "I'm _not _lying."

Before Germany –red-faced and clearly irritated with Prussia– can retaliate, Prussia is suddenly forced around by a gnarled grip on his shoulder.

"What–?"

He doesn't have time to register anything –or even _blink– _before his world is tipped upside down by a hard, painful, blow to the face.

_WHAM_

A loud _crunch_ resonates through Prussia's skull and his entire body is thrown back into the table with such tenacity that it knocks the wind out of him. His elbow knocks into his beer and tips it over, the contents gliding all over the table and floor and soaking into his coat.

Spinning, black, pain_. _

_Head-pounding pain_.

He's gasping for breath and trying to blink the darkness away. There's an unnatural ringing in his ears that's blocking out any other noise but his pounding heart, and he's pretty sure that if he could hear himself, his choked heaves would sound like he is drowning.

It takes him a few moments of dazed, blurry vision, his head swimming and his face throbbing, his gut shivering to regulate itself, and his lungs struggling to retain their oxygen to realize what had happened.

He had just been punched.

Warm liquid trickles from his nose and over his lips, dribbling onto his uniform shirt and pants. He wants to wipe it away but he's too stunned to move – his face is in pain, his clothes are wet with blood and beer, and he still can't breathe right.

"Serves you right, Nazi," someone sneers from behind him, and there is a collected murmur of agreement that sounds like a dozen buzzing flies to his scrambled brain.

There is a silhouette before Prussia –just barely in the mangled shape of a man– that sounds like it's breathing heavily. Prussia can't see its face with his spinning mind, but he can practically feel the repugnance and loathing from its gaze as it drills into him.

Instincts kicks in.

The overwhelming urge to _move out of his seat as fast as he can_ takes over his body, but his muscles aren't working correctly and the most he manages is a slide of his boot.

He knows from years of fighting that when you're hit once, expect to be hit again. Because your enemy isn't going to wait for you to get your head on straight; he's going to whap you a good two or three times until you're out cold.

But unfortunately for Prussia, he's not going anywhere.

The silhouette shifts and he can just barely make out an arm raising, a balled fist, and then it moving rapidly towards him.

He squeezes his eyes shut to brace for the impact–

There is shuffling.

Something tips over – glass shatters.

No impact.

A grunt followed by a deep, thick growl and the sound of rustling clothes.

Still… nothing hits him.

Prussia peeks through his lids just at the very moment Germany grabs the blob silhouette by the collar. With one heave, Prussia's attacker is sent across the pub and into a pair of tables, empty glasses and steins shattering to the floor around the man's furled body.

Prussia stares wide-eyed at the broad shoulders of his brother, head lifted high and not a hair out of place.

He vividly remembers that it used to be _him_ that would shield his brother; taking the punch or throwing one back when another nation would try and bully the newly formed Germany. He would fend off brutes like Poland and Russia who were power hungry and simply wanted land, Sweden who couldn't seem to stop picking fights, and any others foolish enough to mess with Prussia's littler brother.

But now it was Germany protecting him.

A mixture of self-disdain and pride swells within his chest as he watches the heavily muscled shoulders of his brother rise and fall along with his breathing, and it occurs to him once more that Germany really doesn't need him after all; that he'll be fine even when Prussia is gone.

Really, it was stupid to think that his brother needed him in the first place.

"What the hell was that?! Explain yourself!" Germany yells at the figure as it fumbles around clumsily after its tossing.

The blur in Prussia's vision is dissipating too slowly for his liking; he can just barely make out the color of the man's shirt and hair (which, he believes, is a distinct brown) and although he can't see them, he can feel that there are others standing around. For a former soldier, the situation screams dirty.

The man doesn't reply, simply chuckles.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!" Germany snaps. "Explain yourself!"

The man lets out a choked laugh as he grabs onto the table behind him in an attempt to hoist himself up. The table tips beneath his weight and he collapses back onto the floor.

"Y-you stupid Nazis. It's all your fault that this war started. All your fault. All _his_ fault."

Prussia doesn't need to see to know that the comment is directed at him.

Germany's shoulders tense visibly, even to Prussia's screwed eyesight, and he takes a threatening step forward.

"This has _nothing _to do with _meine bruder_," Germany growls lowly, voice rumbling in his chest. "I suggest you keep your mouth shut before I shut it for you, bastard."

A voice cries in outrage and a few others join in. The man is still trying to get up but it's clear from his movements that he's had one too many drinks to accompany his enraged state, causing him to stumble and slip with every movement like a dog trying to walk on ice.

Prussia is rather flattered that Germany would stand up for him, but he doesn't think it's such a good idea to rouse hot tempered men with bellies full of alcohol and minds brimming with the past war any more than necessary, most especially when they are surrounded. Melees are all too easily started inside bars. And It doesn't help smother the flame when the topic of their current loathing is sitting with a bloody nose and fat lip against his table, ready for more beatings like a piñata at a party.

Their protests against Germany's words continue to fill the air, every once in a while an insult slipping through and pounding into Prussia's head like a two-by-four. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes out a plea for Germany to leave. There's no point in sticking around anymore; he's pretty sure they're not getting their lunch. Prussia's drink was spoiled when his arm smacked into it and for all he knows he could have knocked Germany's over as well.

But Germany's booming voice slices through the chaos and cuts Prussia's words in half.

"ENOUGH!"

Everyone falls quiet.

"_I have had enough of everyone,_" he hisses, hands clenched at his sides. "_Enough!"_

The sound of a coin landing on the floor echoes throughout the room.

"Cowards. That's the only thing you are – _cowards! _People like you–" he shoves a finger at the man still struggling to get to his feet, "–who were the bloody _dogs _of our military, our government, and who idolizedHitler like he was some _god._ You trailed after every power you could and barked orders to all those who were underneath you, but the moment the Allies came marching in you whined and cried like the spineless fools you are, running away with your tail between your legs, and you blamed everyone _but yourselves _for the mess we were in. You need a scapegoat just to sleep at night for the injustice you've committed; the blasphemous thoughts that have gone through your heads towards your fellow brethren and _all _the men you've slaughtered in the name of Socialism, Hitler, and your country. You have to point fingers at everyone else because you're too cowardly to take responsibility for your actions and realize that your country is falling apart because of _you!"_

His ending note is so loud it reverberates from the walls and makes Prussia's ears tingle.

Every breathe he takes is ragged and heaving; his face is contorted with rage and his hair has fallen from its perfect uniformity and cluttered against his forehead. He looks ready to speak again – to spew every pent up sentence, every livid word that resides within him, but Prussia can already hear the nasty murmurs and he knows it's time to stop.

Germany isn't supposed to be the one that's hated.

The blond opens his mouth.

"Every single bastard in this room–"

_BANG_

"West!"

Germany breaks off and whips around to stare at Prussia whose fist sits heavily on the table, empty glasses shivering along with the wood beneath them. He forces his still-bleary eyes to focus on his brother, a scowl tugging at his puffy, crimson lips.

Clenching his jaw, Germany turns his face to the floorboards.

He already knows what's going to be said. He knows he went too far.

It's time to go.

Prussia shakily pushes himself to his feet while using the table to support his weight as he teeters, head spinning, away from his chair. He blinks away the spots that obscure his vision and lifts his sleeve to press into his nose. Warm liquid soaks into his shirt but he ignores it, trying to stem the flow of blood that continues to gush from his nostrils. Definitely broken.

He grabs his coat and hat and maneuvers, to the best of his rickety ability, around the table and out from behind Germany. Placing his hat on his head and slipping his tacky arms through his coat sleeves, he takes a moment to button up his coat with a still dribbling nose until each brass knob is perfectly in place and his Iron Cross is front and center and his uniform is crease-free.

He still has a visage to maintain, and he won't let a broken nose stop him from accomplishing it.

In the ringing silence his boots on the floor sound like thunder, a steady _thump, thump, thump_ as he tromps towards the door of the pub. He's lucky no one tries to sock him again – he is so close to a few men he can smell the alcohol on their breath. Yet he makes it to the door without incident, and it's not soon after that Germany is behind him with his hat on his head and his coat buttoned tight, still silent as death, even when Prussia shoves the old door forward and steps out into the cold.

Just before it swings shut behind them, one last stinging insult is hurdled at Prussia (and he knows it's meant for him because he refuses to admit it has anything to do with Germany) with such copious hatred that it's like a punch to the gut.

"Burn in hell, Nazi!"

And he can't help but grin bitterly at it.

Because _that may just happen_

Germany had thankfully stuffed a handful of napkins into his pocket before leaving the pub. He deftly gives Prussia a new one when the one Prussia is using becomes too soiled to hold any more blood, and Prussia, whose nose is still bleeding profusely, takes it without a word.

With a napkin pressed to his nose, Prussia grumbles continuously about his face being ruined by some drunkard with rage issues and how it will take days for his nose to re-right itself now that it's crooked. (He really hates to think about it too much because it really _is _bent.) He hopes his blubbering will ease the tension between him and Germany as his brother hasn't looked, spoken, nor shown him even the slightest hint of acknowledgment since they left the pub (aside from aiding him with a napkin). Unfortunately, his efforts do not appear to wield any results. Any positive results, anyway.

Germany's face is strained. Although personifications do not age, he looks twenty years older. A sting of guilt hits Prussia once more, this time harder than it ever had, and he has to look away from his brother's sullen expression. The whole point of him taking Churchill's offer was to save Germany from having to look like... well, like _this_. Yet despite his best efforts, Prussia still cannot erase the blatant pain that is now etched into every one of Germany's features. It is like the war happened all over again.

Fidgeting guiltily, Prussia sticks his free hand into his pocket and feels around for the familiar pack of cigarettes.

Nothing.

He sighs.

"Got a smoke?" he asks nasally, cocking his head to the side so he can glance at Germany with the napkin still pressed to his nose.

The blond is silent for a moment before reaching into his coat and pulling out a box of cigarettes and a lighter. He hands a white stick to Prussia before taking one out himself and bringing the lighter up to his face. Prussia balls up the napkin and sticks it in his pocket. Placing the cigarette between his lips, he leans over so Germany can light it for him.

How long has it been since they've last smoked together? A year? Two? Maybe three?

He can't recall.

He takes a long draw on the cigarette and blows out a lungful of smoke. The taste is bitter and he wrinkles his nose in aversion. Geez, how long has it been since he's smoked at _all_? Not since he was on front lines, most likely. But then again, everyone smokes out there. When you're teetering on the precipice of death, watching your friends and comrades get their limbs blown off, a bullet through their head, and shrapnel tearing their gut to shreds, you tend to need the distraction, however fleeting and repulsive it may be.

He takes another puff and exhales, feeling both thankful for the stress-reliever and disgusted that he's using it again. Germany's face remains strained. He's staring ahead as he smokes in an almost frantic sort of manner, his cigarette already half gone. Prussia doesn't realize he's smoking just as much until he finds the butt of his cigarette staring at him between gloved fingers. He's tempted to ask for another but decides against it. He already smells terrible – he doesn't need to add to it.

"Bastards."

Prussia starts and turns to look at Germany. "What?"

"I hate them," he says simply, turning to look at Prussia with cold eyes. "All of them."

Prussia sucks in a breathe and reaches up to adjust his hat. He doesn't know what to say.

Sometimes the people of his country bother him as well, but he cares far too much about them to speak ill of a single person. It was just like that for a personification. The people were the country's stability; without them there would be nocountry and therefore no personification. They love their people. Not hate them.

"You don't hate them," he corrects, turning his gaze up Germany's stony one. "You're just... betrayed. Let time heal wounds. Their clouded animosity will blow over along with the hurt of war."

But Germany's face does not lose its enmity. Rather, the edges of his lips tug down and his eyes narrow until blue is hidden by the shadows of his lids.

"Do you think they're going to forget?" he snaps, drawing the attention of a few passerby that scuttle hurriedly away. "That they're just going to let a pointless war, mass slaughter, and rape go like it was all just a bad day? That was the Allies did to us was nothing?"

"We did some atrocious this too, West," Prussia murmurs, frowning.

"That does not justify what they are doing!" Germany practically bellows, and if Prussia didn't know any better he could have swore it looked like Germany was going to cry. "That is no excuse for their... their..." He breaks off, slamming his jaw shut and looking away.

"_Nein_, it doesn't," Prussia says. He tucks his hands into his pockets and adds a little more sternly, "But if you're going to start a war, expect the monsters to come out and play."

And they both know there is no argument for this.

The blond turns his head to stare at the buildings on his other side, avoiding his brother's calculating gaze. He's clenching and unclenching his jaw in agitation and Prussia, for once in his life, feels like the older brother. Somehow it's a bit scary.

They begin walking again but this time the air is so thick Prussia feels like he might choke on it. The smell of tobacco has long since departed and they are left with nothing but the crisp winter breeze, the distant aroma of baked goods, and their own heavy thoughts.

"Don't you ever just want to disappear?" Germany asks quietly.

Prussia flinches.

"Don't ask something like that," he counters, jaw cricking as he shoots a glower at Germany.

This time it's silent the rest of the way home.

The dining room table is littered with papers and in the thick of the mess sits a disgruntled Germany. He has bags tugging at his eyes and his face is pale. He is visibly exhausted. The first thing he did when they got home was work; the only thing he did before, during, and after dinner was more work; and even still, at well past midnight, he is doing work.

Prussia folds his arms and leans against the door frame to the dining room. He watches as Germany pushes his falling hair from his face and signs another document, flipping through it robotically to make sure he didn't miss anything, and then slides it across the table to a cleared area. He pulls another one towards him with a yawn.

Prussia knows that Germany won't be able to handle this kind of work load much longer. It's been going on for years – long before World War II and long before World War I. Some days were better than others, but as of late, Germany has been swamped from dusk till dawn with mountains of inexplicable paperwork. Admittedly it is Prussia's fault that his brother has been working until the early hours of the morning; had he not dragged Germany out of the house, the blond could have been home or at work doing what he needed to do. Alas, in spite of Prussia's most avid attempts to spare his brother from misery after misery, it feels like he is just adding to them.

Shoving himself off his post, he moves to stand beside Germany to look down at the papers. His brother is so drowsy he barely notices Prussia's presence, and the only acknowledgment he gives is a grunt. But even that sounds forced.

Prussia grimaces. Usually Germany would swat at him to go away and tell him to stop "being a nuisance".

"Hey, how about you go up to bed?" Prussia says, nudging his brother. "You look terrible. You could really use some sleep."

Germany shakes his head. "_Nein_, I have a lot of work that needs to be done by tomorrow."

Prussia hesitates for only a second before murmuring, "I can do it."

Blinking up at Prussia, Germany gives him a questioning look. Yeah, Prussia is surprised at himself too, honestly. Paperwork is the one thing he does _not _and will _never _miss. Yet here he is: asking his brother to let him do it for him.

"Really?" Germany asks, looking genuinely shocked.

"_Ja_, just get your sorry carcass up to bed and let the awesome me do this unawesome stuff for you."

Germany narrows his eyes. "Are you sure...?"

"Of course I am! I wouldn't have offered if I wasn't!" Prussia snaps.

Still looking skeptical, Germany slowly pushes back from the table, eyes never leaving Prussia, and then stands. He doesn't need to ask if Prussia knows _how _to handle the documents; he knows full well that Prussia spent many, _many _years doing just this. But he, more than anyone, knows just how much Prussia hates it. For him to offer to do Germany's... well, it's weird. So much so that Germany doesn't even seem to care that it means Prussia will have to forge his signature.

"If you're sure..." he says hesitantly.

"_Ja, ja, _I am! Just get up and stop wasting precious time, would you?"

Germany reluctantly obeys.

Before heading up the stairs, however, he pauses and sets a fresh beer down in front of Prussia. The albino's eyes flicker up to his brother's, but Germany is staring at the ground with pink cheeks.

"Thanks..." he murmurs.

Fiddling with his hands, he spins around and exits the dining room without another word. His footsteps echo through the quiet house and Prussia can't help but smile.

"Of course," he murmurs to himself, picking up Germany's pen and getting to work. "What are big _bruder_ for?"

The light is still on in the dining room.

Germany doesn't know _how _many times he's told Prussia to _turn off lights_. They lower the heater and freeze themselves out every night to save on money and energy (two things his country is seriously lacking in at the moment). If they are willing to sleep in such a state of discomfort then _why_ does Prussia have to stupidly leave lights on and waste their valiant sacrifices? Being counterproductive should be a crime.

Had Germany not come downstairs for a glass of water, he would have never noticed the light in the first place. He surmises Prussia was probably too tired to think of shutting it off. After all, he _had _been up late working on Germany's papers.

Remembering this makes Germany instantly feel guilty. What time had Prussia finally gone to bed? Probably just a few minutes ago. There were a _lot _of papers to sign and Prussia wasn't the kind of person to just walk away from a job, no matter how tired he may be. Perhaps Germany could forgive him, just this once, for leaving the light on.

As he shuffles into the dining room with numb feet, he decides that he'll turn off the light on his way back through. There is no reason for him to blindly get a glass of water when the dining room light is already on. He might as well make the most of it.

Just when Germany is about to pass the table and step into the kitchen, he pauses. His face softens as he gazes down at the end of the table.

"Oh, Prussia..." he murmurs gently.

Sitting there with his face pressed into one of his arms and the other resting beside a discarded pen and an empty beer bottle is a sleeping Prussia. At the far end of the table is a single stack of papers, tall and neat, and the very topmost document has a perfect forge of Germany's crisp signature.

Prussia finished all the paperwork.

Shaking his head, Germany gives a quiet laugh before walking out of the dining room. Never has he seen Prussia's sleeping face. It is different from the usual mask of callousness and cheerful apathy that he usually puts on. He looks... serene. Calm. Almost happy.

Germany snatches a wool blanket from one of the couches in the living room and then shuffles back into the dining room. He drops the blanket over Prussia's shoulders, tucks it in like Prussia used to do for him when he was little, and watches as the albino's bruised nose twitches and his brows pucker together before burying his neck deeper into the blanket. He looks like a child.

Germany drops a hand lightly onto Prussia's head and ruffles the white hair affectionately. He loves his brother more than anything. Prussia means the world to him. Perhaps it's a selfish thought –a nation should care about his people more so than another country– but he doesn't care.

They are brothers and that will never change.

After getting his glass of water, Germany throws one last look at his sleeping brother. A rare, tender smile pulls at his lips.

"_Ich liebe dich, bruder_," he murmurs, and he could have sworn that Prussia's mouth twitched upward just the slightest.

Then he flicks off the lights and heads back up to bed, a warmth present in his chest that he hasn't felt in a long, _long _time.

* * *

_"You fought and shared every moment with me. I am proud to be still with you now." -Unheilig_


End file.
